


the beginning of the end of the beginning

by salamoonder



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Bathing/Washing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Gen, M/M, Napping, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 19:42:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18037655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamoonder/pseuds/salamoonder
Summary: After all the monsters are gone, it often looks like there's no one--and nothing--left to fight. Quentin's been living with depression for years, though, he knows that's not true.





	the beginning of the end of the beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Post canon. Title taken from the Smashing Pumpkins song. All warnings are in the tags.

It always seems far away and impossible when they’re in the thick of things, that things will ever settle down and smooth out; that there will ever be another moment when they can collapse and breathe and sleep and be okay.

And of course it’s not that simple.

When the most put-upon class of magicians that Brakebills has ever seen stumble through the door of the physical cabin in the knowledge that they are finally safe, the real danger jumps out at them; themselves.  


“El?” Quentin murmurs. “Eliot? Are you okay?”

The color has drained from Eliot’s face; he looks distinctly sick. He glances down at Quentin and gives a tiny shake of his head--and then bolts upstairs.

Quentin’s eyes meet Margo’s, and a decision passes between them. Quentin runs up the stairs after his maybe-boyfriend.

He finds Eliot kneeling on the tile in front of the toilet of the second floor bathroom, coughing and heaving. Quentin pulls El’s curls away from his damp forehead and begins rubbing slow, soothing circles on Eliot’s shaking back.

Eliot’s eyes are watery and red, and Quentin can’t tell if it’s simply a reaction to throwing up or if he’s crying. A knot of fear tightens in his chest. What if being inhabited by the Monster has inflicted some kind of physical damage on Eliot’s body? What if--

Quentin pushes the thought away. Right now he has to be focused on helping Eliot. He nudges himself under El’s shoulder, dragging him upright. He feels very small and weak. Eliot is much taller and stronger, and he’s older and more experienced, and...Q’s not sure he will be able to take care of him.

“Here,” he instructs, handing Eliot the cup next to the sink. “Rinse your mouth out.”

Eliot takes the cup, mumbles, “m’kay,” and watches through half closed eyes as Quentin tests the water temperature in the bathtub, then plugs the drain and lets it fill. The bathtub is not nearly as big as the ones the centaurs had in Fillory, (Q remembers thinking he could practically do laps in those), but Brakebills doesn’t skimp on luxury and it’s plenty big enough for both he and El to fit in it at the same time.

At literally any other time the two of them would probably be thinking about sex, but right now it’s the furthest thing from Quentin’s mind, and Eliot doesn’t even look capable of putting together a comprehensible thought.

This...is worrying.

Quentin starts to work shampoo into Eliot’s hair, waits expectantly to hear the contented moan that usually follows playing with El’s hair. It doesn’t come, thought. All Quentin hears are frightened whimpers.

The fear in his chest swallows him up again and he has to take a moment to breath.

“Eliot, talk to me?”

But El doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look up, and Quentin has to bite his bottom lip to keep from crying.

_Irreparable_ , whispers a voice in his head, and Quentin banishes it by turning Eliot around to face him, tucking a strand of wet curl behind his ear, holding the precious face in his hands and repeating “You’re gonna be okay,” until he almost believes it. El leans forward and rests his forehead on Quentin’s shoulder, and Quentin shudders in relief at the response. Eliot’s eyes had looked dead, lost, as though some part of him was still trapped in the “happy” place, reliving his worst memories over and over again. Quentin scrubs gently at El’s back, carefully avoiding the bruises blossoming there. He’s not sure where they came from. It could’ve been anything.

And Q is sure that he’s covered in bruises of his own; his neck aches when he stretches it up, his legs protest every time he takes a step. They’re all tired, and hurt, and traumatized. What remains is simply to do what they can.

Eventually Quentin is fairly certain he’s removed most of the grime from Eliot’s skin, and reluctantly he pushes him away to work on himself.

El watches him, eyes wide and scared, still trembling although the water is more than warm enough. Quentin counts his breaths, fighting back uncertainty and pain and guilt.

Then he climbs out of the tub and finds them both towels and clothes, because he’s _Quentin Coldwater_ , goddamnit, and if there’s anything he’s good for it’s pressing through when he would rather just lay down and die.

After all, he hasn’t done it yet.

Eliot allows himself to be dressed--and this, too, terrifies Quentin; the lack of playful innuendoes, the teasing, the lazy, catlike grin--all gone. Maybe he should’ve let Margo take over, after all...well, no, he can picture himself being out of sight of Eliot, pacing the common room and enduring everyone else’s concerned stares, Julia’s attempts to soothe him...and he can’t bear it.

He gets El into bed and curls up against him, head resting on top of his chest, and again he’s amazed by how small Eliot makes him feel. It’s not just the near foot that Eliot has in height on him; it’s the subtle ripple of muscles as he shifts his arm, sliding smoothly under his battered skin, the square line of his shoulders, the set of his jaw. Eliot is so strong, inside and out, and yet this fucking _thing_ took and held him for so damn long (Q can’t even remember how long his other life lasted), and fighting his way out of it took every last ounce of his willpower.

Maybe that’s just _it_. Maybe El is gone now, retreated so deep into his mind to shield himself from the pain and the memories that he’ll never come back out.

The thought hits Quentin like a blow, and, having held on for so long, he is finally unable to halt the sobs that rip their way through his body, unable to loosen his death grip on El as his tears soak through his shirt. His head hurts, his whole body hurts, his heart aches, and he doesn’t think human beings were ever meant for this kind of pain, and--

“Shhh, darling.”

Eliot’s stirred at least a little bit, but this only makes Quentin cry harder and lean into the hand stroking his hair, and all he can think is _what-if-what-if-what-if_ as it pounds through him like a heartbeat.

Eliot holds him for a long time, running careful fingers along his spine until the sobs turn to sniffles and then to discontented whines as Quentin drifts into an uneasy sleep.

A few minutes later Josh darts in almost apologetically with a plate of sandwiches and then leaves almost immediately, before El can even say thank you. He’d forgotten about Josh’s stress baking (which apparently extended to carefully cut tea sandwiches).

Everyone has to cope.

Eliot is halfway through a cream cheese and jelly when Margo waltzes in and snuggles herself under his arm.

“Took you two long enough,” she mutters, and snatches a chicken salad sandwich from the plate. “I told you.”

“And you were right as always, my king,” Eliot murmurs reverently, dropping a kiss to his best friend’s forehead.

She rolls her eyes. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

There’s a slight pause, and then, “Pass me the tuna one?”

“Sure.”

Eliot hands it to her and Margo hums contentedly.

“You alright?” she asks.

“No,” El sighs. “I’d say I will be, but. I honestly don’t know.”

Despite herself Margo finds her eyes welling. They’ve drunk and talked and drugged and screamed away their problems for so many years--why  
should this be any different?

Quentin stirs on Eliot’s chest, interrupting Margo’s introspection.

“Love you guys,” he mumbles sleepily, half aware. Eliot chuckles.

“Yeah, yeah, love you too, nerd,” Margo manages between bites.

“I love you too, Quentin,” says El, quiet and firm, and with that Quentin drifts back to sleep.


End file.
